


Nothing to be Scared of

by partly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-08
Updated: 2010-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-10 00:22:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/93198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partly/pseuds/partly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Dean would never be afraid of anything that walked around the town in broad daylight. He'd never be afraid of anything as mundane as a human teenager. And he'd never, ever be afraid of someone named 'George Grefe'.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing to be Scared of

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for [afteriwake](http://afteriwake.livejournal.com/) over on lj for a long-past-due holiday story. She wanted a story about Dean meeting a bully at school. I had every intention of doing that simple story, only it had a mind of it's own and it grew into something much longer. The basic concept is still there, just tweaked a little. I hope it still works for her, I just couldn't write a bully that Dean would actually be bullied by without taking it to this next step.

Dean Winchester may have only been twelve-years-old, but he was dead certain of two things:

1\. There were a lot of things to be scared of in this world.  
2\. You couldn't let being scared stop you from doing what you had to do.

From the moment Dean stood in his burning house and Dad entrusted him to save Sammy, Dean understood the importance of doing what you had to do no matter how scared you were. Dean knew a lot about scary things. The world was full of them. They festered in the dank and decay of abandoned buildings or tortured souls. They lurked in the darkness and shadows; they snuck in open doors or unlocked windows in the middle of the night. They all scared Dean.

But Dean would never be afraid of anything that walked around the town in broad daylight. He'd never be afraid of anything as mundane as a human teenager. And he'd never, ever be afraid of someone named 'George Grefe'.

Yet here he was waiting until everyone else had exited the bus, crouched in the back row and pretending to look for some non-existent school supply that could have rolled under the seats. He was half-hoping that the driver didn't even notice him and would return to the bus yard where Dean could make an easy escape. He could fake a sick day; they never did anything important in school on Mondays, anyhow.

"Come on, kid," the driver's voice echoed through the bus. "I ain't got all day, here. Find it or go without."

Dean sighed and stood up, readjusting the pack on his shoulder. So much for the easy way. "I just want to check the other side." He stood and made a show of moving to the seats across the aisle, when the tall, lanky form of George Grefe climbed up the steps.

"Hey, Dave," George smiled at the driver for a second before he turned a wolfish grin on Dean. "This little guy givin' you some problems?"

"Naw, just looking for sumthin', I guess."

Dean had frozen at George's entrance. The thought of trying to make it out the back emergency exit flitted through his mind but he squashed the traitorous idea and stood his ground.

"I can help you look, Deanie," George said, moving down the aisle.

Dean's stomach churned at the thought of being trapped with George in the confining seats in the back of the bus. He forced himself to walk toward the towering figure. "I got it."

George's eyes narrowed but he stopped. The driver muttered "about time", shifted the bus into gear and slid a pair of earphones onto his head. Dean slowed, hoping that George would give up and head out, but instead the teenager sidestepped between two seats on the left side. "After you." The wolfish grin returned.

Dean screwed up his courage and walked past George, swinging his backpack to his left shoulder just as he passed the older boy. George moved back so not to get hit by the pack, but then slid out of the seat into the aisle behind Dean, grabbing the back of Dean's neck and jerking him to a stop. He squeezed so hard Dean had to bite his cheek to keep from crying out.

"Think I wouldn't find you?" George asked. "Hiding in the back of the bus like a girl? I knew from the moment I saw your pretty face you weren't nothin' but a pussy." George leaned forward and spoke directly into Dean's ear. "Don't think you can stick your nose where it don't belong and just walk away, Pretty Boy." Dean's skin crawled at the touch of George's breath. "I did some checking up on you. Mommy dead, daddy gone all the time, just you and your little brother all alone in this big ol' town. Bet you think you're some kind of hero, don't you? Rushing in; saving the girl. You didn't save her from anything. And you? You don't get to walk away from this. This is my game and you gotta be part of the team." He continued to grind his fingers into Dean's neck as he pushed him forward all the way to the front of the bus. George pulled him to another painful stop at the top of the steps, next to the oblivious driver, the strains of a country song clearly audible under the headphones. "You either play ball or you are the ball, got that?"

Dean struggled to keep his balance as George suddenly released his hold on his neck. He reached out for the thin metal rail along the stairs, when he felt a sharp push on his back and he was falling, grabbing uselessly for a handhold. Something tangled in his feet and he was halfway out the door, hard blacktop and curb rushing toward him. Dean twisted, fighting to land on his shoulder, hoping the pack would absorb some of the impact. He was only partially successful, his wrist twisted agonizingly under him but his head hit the pack instead of the curb.

Pain, anger and humiliation burned hotly at the back of Dean's mind. He shrugged out of the pack and pushed to his feet, ignoring the flare of pain from his wrist when he did so. George swung down from the bus, landing in front of Dean with a bounce. Dean's hands involuntarily curled into fists as he looked up to meet George's smirk. Even with the added four inches of height the curb gave him, George still towered over him.

Dean wasn't small for his age. In fact, he was an inch taller than the average twelve-year-old, according to the statistics that hung on the gym teacher's wall. He wasn't a wimp, either. He was always at the top of the class when they did the President's Physical Fitness test -- hell, he'd have tons of those frickin' patches, if they'd ever stayed at one school long enough to get them. And he knew how to fight. The Marine Corps had efficient and creative ways of permanently disabling or eliminating opponents and his dad had taught him every one. From the time he was six, Dean knew exactly what to do if an adult attacked him or Sam. "Do what you have, too," Dad had told Dean. "Make them hurt and put them down." The problem was, he wasn't six anymore. And Dad would be seriously pissed off if Dean 'put down' the 17-year-old son of a cop in front of a school.

Right now, though, staring up into George's smug, mean face Dean was willing to risk some of his father's anger for a chance to break this bastard's knee.

George laughed and reached out to run his hand through Dean's hair. Dean bristled at the touch, using all his will power not to jerk away or attack. "Ain't that cute. Pretty boy thinks he's tough."

Blood pounded in Dean's ears. He'd show this SOB what tough was.

"Something wrong, gentlemen?" The woman's voice came from behind Dean.

George's hand dropped to Dean's shoulder, his long fingers digging a warning through Dean's shirt. "Why no, Mrs. Mitchell." He smiled brightly over Dean's head.

Dean fought to rein his emotions in. A bell rang and the last of the buses pulled away from the curb. Dean noticed for the first time that most of the kids were already in the school.

"You're not supposed to be here, George. Senior Privileges may mean you don't have to be in class, but high school students are not to be on Middle School property during school hours without an academic reason. You know the rules."

George finally released Dean's shoulder, spreading his hands wide in what Dean assumed was meant to be a declaration of innocence. "I was dropping my sister off, Mrs. Mitchell, and then I just wanted to talk to my buddy, Dean, here. He--"

Mrs. Mitchell cut him off. "This isn't a discussion, George. You're leaving, now. Student drop off is in front. The next time I see you back here, you **will** be talking to Principal Skinner. Senior Privileges can be revoked. Understood?"

"Absolutely," George smiled through his agreement.

Dean snorted and reached down for his pack. That was an empty threat. Principal Skinner wouldn't revoke a hall pass much less Senior Privileges. Besides, teachers only had bus duty once a quarter. In a week, no one would care if George was there or not.

George didn't move and Dean knew that he was waiting to see if Mrs. Mitchell would leave so that he could get one more shot in. To Dean's relief, Mrs. Mitchell stood her ground.

"Now, George."

George shrugged, giving in as another bell rang in the background. "I'm going." He pointed a finger at Dean. "See you after school, _slugger_."

Dean met George's eyes defiantly, anger again burning hot in his blood. Warring desires of fighting and running made it difficult to think.

"I'm afraid that's not going to happen," Mrs. Mitchell said. "That bell means young Mr. Winchester is tardy. That makes it five times. He owes me a week's worth of detention." She looked down at Dean. "I think we should start today, don't you?"

It took a second for Dean to process that she was talking to him and another one to realize that she was wrong. He hadn't been late to school at all. Being tardy meant calls home and calls home led to questions about where Dad was. He was just about to protest when he looked at her and realized that she wasn't wrong, she was _lying_. She was giving him a way out. He slung the pack on his shoulder. "Whatever." He hoped he sounded convincingly bored.

"Perfect." She waved Dean toward the school. "I will see you at three, sharp, in the library." She then turned to George, who was still standing in the parking lot. "I mean it, George. The rules apply to everyone. I don't expect to see you here without an academic reason."

Dean trudged into school, wrist still throbbing. He could hear Mrs. Mitchell following him, muttering under her breath. He could have sworn that she called George a jerk.

It wasn't the word that Dean would have used. If George would just be a jerk, Dean could handle him. Dean could throw a punch and take a hit when he had to, and a combination of those usually satisfied the jerks enough to leave him alone. No. George was a different animal altogether and Dean had no idea what he'd have to do to get rid of him.

And **that** really scared Dean.

~~~~

Four days later and Dean was no closer to figuring out how to deal with George Grefe than he'd been on Monday. The fact that he hadn't seen him since then did nothing to ease Dean's fears. Equally annoying was that he couldn't figure Mrs. Mitchell out, either.

She was his dad's age, quiet and polite with the irritating habit of being cheerful and happy all the time. Little cutesy figures covered her desk and even more cutesy posters were tacked all over her walls. Dean had a hard time reconciling the person who made George Grefe back down with someone who would hang pictures of cute kittens proclaiming "Hang in there". She wasn't even a real a teacher, just an aide who worked in the library, so he wasn't sure exactly how much power she had at the school. Dean, who avoided reading as much as possible, had only met her once before, when his class had been given a tour of the library to get books for a book report. Dean hadn't checked out any, just turned in the same book report he'd used at the last four schools he went to. It was a perk of moving around as much as they did.

This little arrangement wasn't an official detention, yet she expected him to be at the library every day at three. And even though it wasn't official, she still pulled the strings to have Sammy bussed over from the elementary school so that he wouldn't have to go home alone. The first day she offered to drive them home, in exchange for staying another half-hour to do some extra work. Refusing the offer had been on the tip of Dean's tongue -- the last thing he needed was some nosey do-gooder checking to see if they were living in a "safe and nurturing environment" -- but Dean was afraid that George would be hanging around the school watching for him to come out. The thought of George coming after him when Sammy was around haunted Dean so much that he started carrying his folding knife well hidden in his boot.

She hadn't asked where they lived, just drove up to the right motel room and said that she'd see them tomorrow. Dean noted that she kept watch until they were in the room and turned the light on, but she never tried to come in. That first night Dean had given her the standard line about Dad working late but she just shrugged and said that she knew how hard it was to make a living. The next day she had some snacks for the two of them and it was just understood that they would stay late and she would drive them home.

Dean wanted to hate it as charity but she never made a big deal out of it and no matter how long he looked at it, Dean couldn't see a downside. Besides Sammy was in his element spending an hour and a half in a library. He even talked Dean into checking out some books for him to read. That night when they got home he noticed Mrs. Mitchell had slipped in a couple of books obviously meant for Dean. Sammy thought it was the funniest thing ever -- Dean with a book. Dean was going to pretend to read them only to get Sammy to shut up about it, but they turned out to be pretty interesting. The hotel television got crap reception anyhow.

The first four days she had him re-shelve the returned books. He never saw her checking to see if he was doing it right and he couldn't decide she did so the next day or if she just trusted him to do it correctly. He suspected that she was just enough of a sap for it to be the latter, so he made damn sure he did it right. Friday, though, he and Sammy were greeted with two tables full of papers, a laminating machine and a project that Dean thought looked suspiciously craft-like. Sammy was young enough to think that gluing and cutting were fine things for a guy to do, but Dean knew better. He caved, however, when Mrs. Mitchell upped the stakes by offering to order in pizza if they stayed until the project was finished.

It wasn't as much a sissy project as he'd feared. Mrs. Mitchell was in charge of some volunteer banquet they were having Monday. They spent the first hour in the auditorium and then in the old cafeteria setting up monitors and a video feed for part of the presentation. Dean impressed Mrs. Mitchell with his ability to jury rig the old video equipment and school's closed circuit television channel into doing what she needed. When they got back up to the library there was pizza waiting and Dean got to run the laminating machine and use the industrial size paper cutter. Mrs. Mitchell and Sammy spent most of the time talking about school and different places they'd lived. Dean kept a close ear on the conversation, but didn't have to participate, which was fine with him. He was folding the last batch of nametags when one caught his attention.

"Officer Grefe?" Dean held up the tag. "Officer **Grefe**?"

Mrs. Mitchell nodded. "He's the lead officer on the D.A.R.E team."

Dean frowned. "D.A.R.E.?" He hadn't really been paying attention to what they were working on. He just sent it through the laminator and cut everything down to size. "What's D.A.R.E.?"

"Drug Abuse Resistance Education. It's program to help keep kids from using drugs or drinking or smoking. Police volunteers help teach the programs to all the fifth graders. This," she waved at the piles they had been working on, "is for Monday's banquet honoring those volunteers and the other members of the anti-drug task force."

Dean took a moment to process this. "You're telling me that George Grefe's father is the head of an anti-drug task force."

"Has been for the past six years."

Dean laughed.

Mrs. Mitchell looked at him, puzzled. "That's funny?"

"It's hilarious."

Mrs. Mitchell frowned, then turned to Sam, who was finishing up his third piece of pizza. "Sam, do you think you could take all the bags of trash down the hall to the elevator? The janitors will take it from there. Then go ahead and wash up and I'll take you and your brother for some ice cream on the way home."

"Cool!" Sammy jumped up and grabbed a bag of trash before he stopped and looked at Dean. "I mean, is that OK, Dean?"

Dean wanted to say no, it was obvious what Mrs. Mitchell was doing, but Sammy was so happy and this was all going to go to hell soon, anyhow. Better let the kid enjoy a little happiness while he could. "Sure thing, Sammy."

Sammy grinned and dragged the first bag out the door, singing some ridiculous song about ice cream. Dean focused on folding the nametags and stacking them on the table.

Mrs. Mitchell waited until Sammy was out the door. "I'm not going to get you to tell me what going on with George, am I?"

It wasn't really a question so Dean didn't answer.

Mrs. Mitchell sighed. "Some things are too big to be kept a secret, Dean. They're too important or too dangerous. Sometimes you need to tell someone."

Dean scoffed. "We moved here a month ago. You know where we live, _how_ we live. Even if Dad wasn't gone on a job, I'd still look more like a bad guy than George ever will."

"That shouldn't matter."

"Right." Dean shook his head. "I can see it now: Dean 'troubled kid from the wrong side of the tracks with an absentee father' Winchester against George 'upstanding citizen and son of D.A.R.E. cop' Grefe. Who's going to believe me?"

"I will"

It was said so quietly, with such steady conviction that Dean knew, absolutely, she would. And suddenly, more than anything, he wanted to tell her, to tell her everything. How he'd missed the bus last Tuesday and was walking home when he'd seen George and two of his high school buddies dealing drugs in the football field behind the school. How they were giving away "free samples" and what they were doing with the girls who accepted. How he was just going to walk away -- after all it wasn't his concern if the idiots choose to do drugs -- but then he'd found Melody, crying and scared, standing under the bleachers.

She was two years older than Dean and her friends were the ones partying in the field, but Melody just wanted to leave and she begged Dean to help her because she was sure they weren't going to let her go. She was right. When George saw them walking away he did try to stop them, first with promises of drugs and hints of sex and then threats of violence. Dean knew they only got away because a couple walking their dog came by. Dean threatened to yell for help and bring the whole party down if George didn't let them go. Dean thought that they'd gotten off lucky.

Only the next day, George met him coming off the bus. It was amazing how much abuse could be doled out without any of the supervising adults noticing. The first day it was just about threatening Dean to keep his mouth shut, but soon he started saying that Dean needed to "play ball" and "to prove that he was part of the team" just like "that bitch Melody" had. Dean had seen Melody only once all week. She was wearing long-sleeved turtleneck and he could see the edge of bruises just above her wrists and along the back of her neck. Dean didn't want to imagine what she had to do to prove she was part of the team, but he knew that she'd never talk about any of it. George had made sure of that. Just like he was going to make sure Dean never talked.

The moment passed. Dean stared, silent and angry, at the "Officer Grefe" tag that lay on the table.

Mrs. Mitchell sighed. "So what are you going to do? I can't keep you in fake detention forever. And I get the feeling that it's only a matter of time before George goes after you through other means."

Dean's head snapped up. He wondered, briefly, how someone who seemed so completely harmless, so very _nice_, as Mrs. Mitchell could be so good at thinking like a bad guy. Sammy ran in, still singing, grabbed another bag and dragged it behind him as he headed out the door. Dean watched until the door swung closed. "George said I might be able to prove that I'm part of the team."

"'Prove you're part of the team'? What does that mean?"

"He hasn't exactly said."

"And if you can't?"

Dean shrugged. _Shoot first and ask questions later_ might not work on the school grounds but it was standing policy when it came to protecting Sammy. "I can take care of George Grefe." It was a simple statement of fact.

Her eyes widened and Dean knew that she understood what he meant. She stared at him, open mouthed, for a second, then she leaned across the table, putting her hand on his. "Look, Dean, before you do something that can't be undone, I want you to think, _really_ think. Whatever you know about George, there has to be a way you can convince others of this, some way you can tell people and make them believe."

Dean shook his head. Mrs. Mitchell may be able to think like a bad guy, but she clearly didn't understand how normal people thought. "No one will ever believe me."

"You have to do the smart thing here, Dean. People like George, they're not as smart as they like to think they are. If you know something about them, then you can bet that other people do, too. Maybe you don't have to be the one who convinces everyone. Maybe you just have to get the right person to talk and _they_ will be do that for you." She paused, then grabbed one of the D.A.R.E. banquet flyers and crumpled it into Dean's hands. "Promise me you wouldn't do anything rash over the weekend. Just think about what I said and meet me on Monday before the banquet. You're smarter than this."

Dean wanted to believe that she was right. He had to be smarter then George -- hell a cockroach had to be smarter than George. He owed Mrs. Mitchell that much, he supposed. He could take the weekend and try to find a smart way to do this. Maybe she was on to something. Maybe he could get someone else to tell what was happening.

Sammy came back in to the library proudly proclaiming he was ready for ice cream and Mrs. Mitchell switched back to talking about the banquet and how proud she was that they'd managed to get everything ready. Dean stared a moment longer that the flyer he held, an idea slowly taking root.

Mrs. Mitchell caught Dean's arm as they headed out the door. "Dean," she paused a second to let Sammy get out of earshot, "I want your word that you'll meet me on Monday. I want you to promise me that you'll do the smart thing."

"I will." Dean looked into Mrs. Mitchell's eyes, the idea quickly solidifying into a plan . "Don't worry, Mrs. Mitchell. I won't do anything stupid. I promise."

~~~~

This was probably the stupidest thing he'd ever done, Dean thought.

He crouched behind the gym door, watching for movement and straining to hear any sound of pursuit. It was still and silent and Dean took a moment to catch his breath. He'd told George to meet him at 6 pm on Monday at the Middle School to see if they could work out a deal. He hadn't expected George to bring two of his buddies with him or that they considered "beat the crap out of Dean" to be opening negotiations.

Of course, _they_ hadn't expected Dean to fight back. He'd broken the nose of the shortest one with a solid right and had dropped George with a leg sweep. That had given him just enough of an advantage to make a run for it. Still, the plan had gone FUBAR much faster than he'd imagined. His dad's voice rang through his head 'No battle plan survives contact with the enemy'. The idea itself was still solid, though. John Winchester might rely on multiple plans and contingencies, but for Dean 'Plan B' was always 'Make Plan A work'.

A door slammed back down the hallway and George's voice echoed down the empty corridor. "Here, Pretty Pretty." The other boys laughed and George tried again. "Come out, come out, wherever you are."

"Yeah," from the thick sound of the voice, it had to be the one that Dean had punched in the nose. "We're not going to hurt you. Much." More laughter.

Dean wondered if they were really that stupid, but then they laughed again and Dean readjusted his thinking. They weren't stupid -- they were stoned. Didn't these guys ever watch 'Scarface'? _Don't get high on your own supply._ Not that he was complaining. Them being stoned could work in his favor, and he'd take any advantage he could get at this point.

There wasn't any more laughter and Dean realized that he'd lost track of how far up the hall they'd come. The hair on the back of his neck stood up and Dean bolted from his hiding spot, his heels knocking the door open with a bang. He sprinted toward another exit on the far side of the gym. Halfway there, the pounding feet of his pursuers joined his. Ten feet from the door, a beefy hand grabbed his arm, pulling him to a stop and swinging him around into the waiting arms of George. Long fingers dug into his upper arms holding him firmly in place and George leaned down again, talking right into Dean's ear in that same creepy-ass way he had on the bus.

"You're all mine, now. You won't be so pretty when I get through with you."

Dean couldn't stop the shiver that ran through him and George laughed, his breath hot and moist against Dean's neck. Dean slammed his head back, hard, and felt a satisfying crunch where it connected with George's cheekbone. The viselike hold on his arm lessened and Dean wrenched free. The kid in front of him, beefy and with a broken nose, dropped into a crouch to block his exit. Dean had a brief thought that it looked like football stance just before he kicked the creep solidly in the groin. The teenager folded with a strangled cry and Dean followed that kick with another one aimed at the closest knee. Dean felt the knee give beneath the kick and while he knew the blow was too high to actually break the knee, it would slow the bastard down.

Dean turned, trying to sprint for the door but George snagged his wrist and pulled him back to him, this time circling Dean's neck with an arm, almost pulling him off the ground. Dean clawed at the arm, spots beginning to dance in front of his eyes.

"Damn it, Pete," George shouted. "Help me hold this little prick!"

Pete, who'd spent the entire fight watching from the middle of the gym, flinched at his name, but did as he was told. Dean, panicked and out of air, pushed off with his toes, kicking back with his feet and throwing all of his weight forward. The maneuver pulled George off balance and he fell, releasing his stranglehold on Dean. They landed, tangled together and Dean threw an elbow into George's side as he rolled out of his reach. He felt hands grab at his feet but he kicked free. Dean scrambled further away, then turned, facing his attackers with his back against the folded bleachers, gasping for air and fighting to get his bearings. He'd never make it out of the gym if they got a hold of him again and the door was still ten feet away. George climbed to his feet and Pete moved to stand between Dean and the door. Even Mr. Football was managing to move again. This wasn't going to end well.

Dean suddenly looked past all of them, over their shoulders to the doors catty-corner from where they stood. "Help me," he shouted, waving his arms. "I need help!"

All three of them turned to look at the nonexistent person Dean was shouting to and Dean bolted past Pete, through the door and down the hallway. He skidded around a corner, heading down another, darker corridor. His ribs burned with each breath and his head throbbed in time with his heart. The door marked "stage" appeared sooner than he expected, and he almost missed it. Stumbling to a stop, he threw his shoulder into the door and it swung open, the tape he had put on the lock to keep it open still working. He ducked into the door just as his pursuers rounded the corner. There was a power switch right inside and he hit it as he went by, the hum of electricity filling the stage as the lights came on and equipment powered up.

Racing up a short set of stairs and onto the stage, dean slip to a stop in the middle. There wasn't any place left to go; here he'd make his stand. He moved under the main spotlight, up against a piece of scenery left from last month's production of "The Music Man". He heard the door slam open and knew George and his buddies were coming in. A broken pool cue lay among some other forgotten props and Dean grabbed it, holding it in front of him. It wasn't much but it was better than nothing.

George ran onto the stage, followed by Pete. They separated as they reached center stage, coming to a stop where they could flank him. The final member of the trio limped slowly after them. It would've been nice to think that they were keeping their distance out of fear, but Dean knew better. They were the type that liked to intimidate and threaten before they moved onto the main event.

"You think you can fuck with me and get away with it, you little shit?" George's voice, loud and angry, echoed though the stage.

Dean kept waving the broken cue between his attackers, painfully aware of how out-muscled he really was. He could've taken George, but there was no way that he could fight all three of them. "Just tell me what I have to do." He'd planned to say something else, something clever, but he was all out of clever, so he went for desperate. "What do I have to do to prove myself to you? I didn't tell anyone that you were selling drugs. I didn't tell anyone about Melody. I'm not going to tell anyone, anything."

"You think I care about that?" George laughed. "Go ahead and tell the world. You think anyone is going to listen to some insignificant little nobody like you? Do you think anyone even _cares_ what happens to you? You're nothing." He sneered. "Are you even going to make the news once you go missing?"

Dean froze at George's words. _Missing._ George didn't seriously think he could get away with murder, did he? Dean gripped the cue tighter in his sweaty hand. "I just want to be left alone. Just leave me alone." The amount of panic in his voice frightened Dean.

"It's too late for that. Way too late." George took a step toward Dean but retreated when Dean swiped at him. "I'm going to end this tonight."

Pete slowly circled to the left but Dean couldn't take his eyes off George. "Why? If it doesn't matter what I do, you can just let me go. Right?" He couldn't stop himself from asking. "If I'm so insignificant, why do you even care?"

George took a slow step forward, hands spread in front of him. "Because you had to go and play the hero. You had to stick your nose into my business. Nobody fucks with me. Especially a nobody like you." He smiled again, feral and hungry. "I just wanted you to know that none of it mattered. Melody's hardcore, you know. I've been dealing her for years. You think you saved her? She was back, beggin' me for a hit the next day."

Pete moved on his left and Dean glanced over at him. George knocked the pool cue to the side and rushed Dean, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and slamming him against the scenery wall. The wall shook and Dean feared for a moment that it would topple over. Dean clawed at the arm and George shifted his grip, wrapping his hand around Dean's throat. "Not so tough now, are you, Pretty Boy?" George slammed him against the wall again. Spots danced in front of Dean's eyes. A cable uncoiled from above, followed by a large black object that crashed onto the floor next to Dean.

"Son of a bitch!" George let go of Dean and jumped back. Dean crumpled to the ground gasping for air and staring at the video camera that had just fallen off the top of the scenery. _His_ video camera. The one that was supposed to be broadcasting this entire confrontation live, right to the monitors in the D.A.R.E. banquet taking place this very minute in the old cafeteria just on the other side of the school. The video camera that was the key to bringing George Grefe down and saving Dean Winchester's ass.

The video camera that was in a dozen different pieces on the floor next to him.

Dean forced himself to be calm. How long had they been here? Ten minutes? Fifteen? Help should have been here by now. Unless the camera hadn't been broadcasting anything at all. Or they didn't have the monitors on at the time. Or... panic swept over Dean leaving him lightheaded.

George and the other two stared at the shattered camera for a moment, then Pete laughed. "Oh man, Grefe! You should've seen your face."

"Shut up," George snarled. He walked over and kicked at the camera. The broken pieces of Dean's plan scattered across the stage. George looked out into the dark auditorium before he shrugged and looked back at Dean. "Where were we?" He reached down and picked up the cue that he'd knocked out of Dean's hand. "Oh, yeah, I remember."

Fear forced Dean into action. Help wasn't coming. He reached for the knife that he had in his boot. His fingers fumbled at the sheath, but couldn't get a grip on the handle. George towered above him. Dean gave up on the knife. He scrambled back. There was nowhere to go.

"A little demonstration on what I do to wanna-be heroes." George twirled the stick once in his hand before bringing it down. Dean blocked the first blow with his arm, making his already sore wrist go numb and heavy. George hit him again and again. Dean's world faded to darkness behind pain and panic.

~~~~

Then, shouts and running footsteps. The room filled with people and confusion, but Dean didn't care. He wanted to curl into a corner and hide in the darkness. Something tugged at his arm and he swatted at it.

"Dean!" A woman's voice cut through the dimness. A familiar voice.

"Mrs. Mitchell?" His jaw ached when he talked. Something warm and sticky ran down the side of his face.

"Yes, Dean. Now just relax. Jennie here is a paramedic. Let her look at you." Mrs. Mitchell's worried face faded in and out of focus. "Please, Dean. You're hurt."

"No shit." The words were out before he could stop them. He gritted his teeth together to keep from saying anything more. Getting hit on the head always made him talk too much. Dean groaned as he pushed himself up, managing to sit. He leaned back against the wall focusing on not throwing up, fighting to pull the right words from the steady stream of babble that ran through his head. "Don't worry." He tasted the metallic tang of blood as he spoke and he could feel his left eye swelling shut. "I'm fine." The words slurred together but at least they made sense.

"I'll be the judge of that, tough guy." A pretty blonde woman -- Jennie, the paramedic, Dean assumed -- crouched next to him. From the way she frowned at him, Dean decided he must have looked almost as bad as he felt. "I'm gonna need a full medkit over here," she called over her shoulder. "How far out is that ambulance, Frank?"

It took a moment for Dean to make sense of her words. Over ringing in his ears, Dean could make out sirens. "No." Dean struggled to pull his arm away from her. "You can't... I can't go... he can't know." His wrist twisted in her grip and the stab of agony that shot up his arm stole his breath. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe through the pain.

"Dean." Mrs. Mitchell's face swam in front of him when he opened his eyes again. "Hold still!"

Dean blinked blurrily at her, but he sat still. "No hospital. Don't make--" He bit his lip to keep from talking. This was all wrong. He was supposed to lay low. He wasn't supposed to get noticed. The rules were simple: No trouble. No cops. No freakin' hospital. _Don't attract attention._ He'd really screwed up this time.

"Don't worry about it, Dean," Mrs. Mitchell said. "I already called your Dad. He's on his way home. I'll explain everything when he gets here."

Her seeming confidence to do so didn't make Dean feel any better. Neither did the fact that she not only apparently knew how to get in touch with John Winchester, but actually managed to do so. How long had he been out? The wail of sirens grew louder and Dean felt sick. FUBAR didn't even begin to cover this. He shut his eyes tight against the panic that threatened to overwhelm him. After the Striga, it'd taken months for Dad to trust him enough to leave Dean in charge and go hunting; once he found out about this screw up he'd never allow Dean out of his sight. How many people were going to be hurt because Dean couldn't be trusted to follow the rules?

Dean opened his eyes as Jennie removed a cloth from the cut on his forehead. The white material was stained crimson and he could feel a new trickle of blood trail down the side of his face. Jennie was talking to him, but he couldn't hear what she said. Time moved unevenly. The sirens stopped. A heartbeat later two paramedics with a gurney stood beside him on the stage. He blinked and he was on the gurney fighting weakly to keep them from strapping him down. Then the gurney was soft and warm, the painful buzzing in his head eased and the voices arguing around him became clearer.

He made a half-hearted effort to sit up before someone helped him out by raising the back of the gurney. Dean was suddenly grateful for the strap that kept him from pitching forward. He took a couple of steadying breaths and looked around, finally able to make sense of the activity around him.

The stage was full of people, most in police or sheriff uniforms. George, Pete and Football Guy were kneeling along the back wall, hands cuffed behind them. Four deputies stood close to them, deep in conversation, occasionally glancing at the prisoners or Dean. Dean couldn't even begin to guess what they were saying and he decided he didn't care. Another man sat alone in a seat in the darkened auditorium, head in his hands. Dean knew without a doubt he was George's father. He wondered if the man was ashamed over what his son had done or was planning how to help him get away with it. Dean closed his eyes and let the sounds fade around him, trying not to imagine what _his_ dad would choose to do.

"Dean." Mrs. Mitchell's hand felt cool and soothing against his face. When he looked at her this time, she was less fuzzy around the edges. "Before you go to the hospital, there are some people who want to talk you." She frowned at a tall man who moved to her side. Dean didn't need to read the "Sheriff" embroidered on his uniform to know that he was in charge.

"Howdy, Son. Think you're up to answerin' a few questions?"

The Sheriff's voice was low, authoritative, and it sounded so like his dad's that Dean nodded instinctively. That was a mistake. A wave of nausea swept over him. The pain in his head spiked and the buzzing pitched higher. As the world blurred around him, Jennie materialized by his side.

"Sheriff, do we have to do this now?"

"I've got three boys in cuffs, I'm supposed to be haulin' off to jail, Miss Jones, and all I got to go on is a whole lot of confusin' statements on what people think they saw on some TV on the other side of the school. Now it may be that we got some sort of recordin' of what happened, but we don't know that yet. Right now, with the story they're tellin', I ain't hardly got a solid reason to even hold 'em overnight, so yeah, I think we gotta do this now."

"It's all right," Dean said, interrupting Jennie. The thought those three bastards could possibly walk out free outweighed his fear of having to deal with the police. Some things just needed to be done, consequences be damned. "What do you need to know?"

The sheriff pulled a small notepad out of his shirt pocket. "Tell me what happened here tonight."

Dean almost said _I got the shit beat out of me._ but he managed to bite it back. He focused on choosing the right words. "I came here to talk to Mrs. Mitchell and George and his buddies over there jumped me."

"Why would he do that?"

Dean focused on the pen in the sheriff's hand, ignoring the _he's an asshole_ line that ran through his head. "George knew I saw him selling drugs to some kids at the middle school."

"When was this?"

Dean frowned, trying to remember. "Tuesday. Ah. Week before last." He wasn't sure if that was right, but Mrs. Mitchell gave a small nod and he relaxed a little.

"Why didn't you call the police?"

Dean shrugged. "Who'd believe me? Besides it wasn't any of my business." He hadn't meant to say that last bit, but it was true. The sheriff didn't disagree, so Dean continued. "I was going to walk away, only there was this girl. She needed my help. So I helped her and George didn't like that."

"And this girl's name?"

"Ah... yeah. She's an eighth grader, tall and thin. Always scared. She's..." It hurt to think and the ringing in his ears started up again. Dean could picture her, hear her begging him for help, see the bruises on her neck and wrists, he just couldn't think of her name. "Um... Melanie? No. Shit!" _Why couldn't he think of her name?_

"Melody Jacobs?" the Sheriff provided.

"Yes!" Dean leaned back against the pillow in relief. "Melody. Short black hair, bruises on her arms. I think George hurt her. To keep her quiet. _Asshole._" The words tumbled out. Anger and pain pushing his need to talk. "Someone had to stop him before he hurt someone else. So I--" Dean clamped his mouth shut so quickly that he almost bit his tongue. The desire to tell them the entire plan was almost overwhelming.

The sheriff waited a moment then asked quietly. "So you, what?"

Dean heard a slight change in the sheriff's voice and warning bells went off in his head. He clenched the thin blanket covering him in his fists and concentrated on keeping silent and breathing.

The sheriff prompted again. "So you told them to meet you here tonight? Because you wanted to stop them?"

It took all of Dean's willpower to keep from saying _damn right I did_. He spent most of his life in one kind of lie or another, but sometimes it took so much effort not to tell the truth that it hurt almost more than the beating he'd just endured. He struggled to find the best words. "I came because I told Mrs. Mitchell I would be here." That lie had just enough truth in it to ease the pain in his chest. "She told me I could talk to her." That part was absolutely true, but he couldn't look at Mrs. Mitchell as he said it, so he leaned his head back onto the gurney.

"You didn't tell George to meet you here, at the school?"

Once again the sheriff sounded just like his dad, carrying a quiet demand for obedience. Dean met his steady gaze and answered carefully. "I've been avoiding George all week because I was afraid of him." It wasn't an easy admission to make, but right now it was easier than lying. "Why would I tell him to meet me here, alone?"

Dean knew that the non-answer didn't satisfy the sheriff but before he could push the issue a shout from over by the stage door echoed through the room.

"Stop. You can't go in there!"

A small figure dodged his way through the crowded stage. Dean knew before he saw him that it was Sammy. The sheriff made a grab for him but Sammy was quicker than he looked. He ducked behind the lawman and ran full tilt into the gurney, the jolt of his impact slamming Dean against the restraints.

"Dean! What happened? Are you all right?"

"It's okay, Sammy. I'm fine." Dean tried to smile but he didn't think that Sammy was going to believe him.

"You don't look fine." Sammy examined him closely, then glared at the adults standing around, finally ending with the Sheriff. "What happened to Dean?" He crossed his arms and stood firmly between the gurney and the large man. "What's going on?"

Mrs. Mitchell stepped in and saved the sheriff. "Dean was in a fight. But he's going to be fine." She paused a moment, then asked, "Where were you?"

"Dean said it was okay for me to wait in the library while he came and talked to you."

The sheriff finally found his voice. "Wait. Who are you?"

Sammy drew himself up to his full, seven-year-old height. "I'm Samuel Winchester. Dean's my brother."

"And why were you and Dean here tonight?"

Dean started to say something, but the sheriff silenced him with a look.

Sammy shrugged. "Dean said he wanted to talk to Mrs. Mitchell. I think it had to do with the bad guy."

That stopped anything Dean had planned to say. He didn't think Sammy knew anything about what was going on.

They all stared at Sammy for a second before the sheriff spoke. "What bad guy?"

"That one." Sammy pointed over at George. "Dean didn't think I knew," here he turned and pouted at Dean for a second, before looking back at the sheriff, "but I saw him hitting Dean once and he followed us home a while back. And I know that's why Dean spent all last week in the library." He smiled. "Dean _hates_ libraries, but I love 'em so he said I could stay in the library tonight while he went to talk to Mrs. Mitchell." Sammy frowned and peered intently at Mrs. Mitchell. "He's not in trouble for that is he? The door was stuck but he got it open without hurting it."

Dean stared pointedly at nothing in particular. The library door had been locked and he picked it, while pretending to Sammy it'd been jammed. He was glad he managed to pull that one over on the kid.

Mrs. Mitchell didn't say anything about the locked door, though; she just reached out and gave Sammy a hug. "No, Sam. Dean's not in trouble at all. He does have to go to the hospital, though."

"Really?" Sam spun and looked at Dean. "Dean never goes to the hospital.

Dean saw an opportunity. "I don't have to go now, either," he said. "I'm fine."

"No. You're not, tough guy." Jennie appeared, checking over his injuries and shooting the sheriff a hard look. "If you have everything you need, Sheriff?"

The sheriff looked between Dean and Sam, then nodded. "Yes. Thank you. I will need to speak to your father when he gets here." He turned to Mrs. Mitchell. "You said he was out of town?"

"I called him right away. He will be here tonight."

Dean feared for a moment the sheriff was going to ask more questions about where his dad was or why he was leaving two young boys alone, but he just walked to the back of the stage, leaving Dean to be taken to the hospital.

Jennie muttered "Finally!" under her breath and started to push Dean toward the exit. "Let's get you out of here."

Sammy managed to climb up onto the gurney while it was moving. He sat next to Dean's legs and studied his injuries, completely confident that he would be allowed to go along. "You're going to need stitches for that cut, Dean."

Jennie looked at him. "How do you know that?"

"I'm good with that sort of thing. Dad says it's important to know all that stuff in case there's not a doctor or a hospital around. I know when a cut needs stitches or just a butterfly bandage, how to wrap a sprain and even set a broken leg."

Jennie smiled. "Bet you have the Boy Scout Merit badge for first aid, don't you?"

"No. But I could have." Sammy nodded solemnly. "I got a boy scout manual from a library once, one of those old books that they get rid of. I could have gotten all the badges. Dean could have, too. Only he says that the Boy Scouts are for girls. Which is dumb, because that's what the Girl Scouts are for."

Dean closed his eyes, letting Sammy's voice wash over him. The darkness at the edge of his mind was calling to him and he just wanted to slip into unconsciousness and let someone else pick up the pieces. His plan had worked out pretty good, after all. The sheriff seemed satisfied with the story. If the tape from the video recorder was still good -- and Dean didn't know why it shouldn't be -- then George's little gang would be shut down and it won't ever be just his word against theirs. Most importantly, Sammy was safe and charming everyone around him.

He just hoped that would be enough to excuse his stupidity for having been beaten up and taken to the hospital. He hoped that Sammy would understand why they would have to pack up and leave. And he hoped that Social Services wouldn't come poking their overly pompous noses into the lives of the Winchesters. Most of all he hoped Dad would be able to forgive him for screwing this all up. Just before he let oblivion claim him, he changed his mind. His plan hadn't worked at all.

~~~~

Dean woke to the quiet dark of a hospital room. Sammy's warm form lay beside him, breathing low and steady in sleep. Dean smiled as he reached out and covered his brother with the blanket. A picture of Sammy, fists clenched and jaw set in an exceedingly bulldoggish way flashed before his eyes. He imagined that no one would've been willing to drag a seven-year-old child through the hospital as he was kicking and screaming about how he needed to stay with his brother. Dean knew first hand that no one could stop a Winchester once they made up their mind.

A rustle of movement pulled Dean's attention to the chair in the corner of the room. John Winchester loomed in the darkness, eyes on Dean and hands steepled in front of him. Dean matched his gaze for a moment but the pain meds and dimness made it impossible to tell exactly what his dad was thinking. He dropped his eyes to the bandage wrapped around his right arm and forced himself to break the silence. "I'm sorry, Dad. I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to cause you problems." His dad made a strangled sound and Dean plunged on before his dad could say anything. "I know that I'm not supposed to get into trouble and I thought--"

"Dean."

"I know I shouldn't've involved the cops, I know that, I didn't mean to--"

_"Dean._

"But I knew that George wouldn't--. I had a plan, it--"

**"Dean!"**

His dad's voice cut through Dean's desperate attempt to explain and he shuddered to a stop, breathing heavily.

"I know what happened."

Dean waited for him to continue, trying to come up with a suitable apology for all of his failures in dealing with this. His dad kept his voice pitched low, but it still filled the room. Equal parts comfort and rebuke.

"I talked to Mrs. Mitchell and Sheriff Thompson. The three boys who attacked you are in jail on charges of drug possession, assault and attempted..." his dad stopped, took a deep breath and cleared his throat before going on, "attempted murder."

There was a thick undercurrent of emotion in his dad's voice that Dean didn't know how to interpret. Evil and murderous SOBs were the stock and trade of John Winchester. He'd dealt with far nastier creatures than drug-dealing teenagers. No, it had to be disappointment in _Dean_ that had him so worked up. Dean bit back another half-formed apology, knowing that it wouldn't help. He lay in the darkness waiting for an opportunity to fix the mess he created.

"The Sheriff said that they knew someone was working the area, but they just couldn't get to who was behind it all. There've even been some assaults, kids getting badly beaten. But no one was willing to talk about it. Seems George and his friends had most of the kids running scared."

_That_ Dean could understand. He would die before he'd admit it to his dad, but he'd been scared of George, too.

"Did you know Mrs. Mitchell works with the school in an At-Risk program? She kinda keeps tabs on the kids who could use a little extra help. She pointed the Sheriff in the direction of that Melody girl that you helped. When I left to come here, she was taking to her, trying to convince her to tell the Sheriff what happened."

Dean smiled. If anyone could talk Melody into it, it would be Mrs. Mitchell.

"Anyhow, it's obvious that Mrs. Mitchell thinks the world of you. Did you know she tracked me down last week? Called me up to talk about you."

"What?" Dean fought to keep his voice low, panic eating away at him. "But-- How? I didn't give her your number, Dad. I'd never do that."

"You didn't have to, Dean. The school always has a number where they can reach me."

"They do?" Dean hadn't known.

"Of course. They have to know where I am and how to get a hold of me. In case there's trouble. And she was right to call me. This was a dangerous situation and you needed help. I just don't understand why you didn't call me yourself."

The low painful feeling of inadequacy burned in Dean's stomach. He bit back urge to claim that he hadn't needed any help; that he hadn't wanted any. "I didn't want to take you away from..." He paused, looking down at Sammy's sleeping form before continuing, "...away from your work. It's important."

"You're important, too, Dean. You and Sam."

His dad's voice caught when he spoke and Dean was sure he knew why. "I made sure Sammy was safe. Up in the library." Dean's eyes stung from the need to have his dad understand. "I kept Sammy safe." He stared at the far wall and blinked into the darkness, fighting for control.

"I know you did, Dean." His dad suddenly stood beside Dean, his large, rough hand oddly gentle on Dean's shoulder. "You always keep Sammy safe. But it's important you're safe, too." John took another shaking breath.

Dean leaned into his father's grasp, drinking in warmth and strength it offered and he needed it so badly that it frightened him. "I'm so sorry, Dad." It was the only thing he could say.

"I could've lost you, Dean. Lost you to some--" His dad's hand tightened on his shoulder. "What would I do without you?"

"You're never going to lose me, Dad," Dean promised. "I'll always be here to help you. I won't fail you again. You can count on me, I promise."

His dad made the same strangled sound he'd made before. For a brief second Dean feared that he was going to tell him it wasn't true, that he'd never trust Dean again. Afraid that he'd put into words what Dean saw in his eyes every time his older son failed him. Dean focused on a nonexistent spot on the other side of the room and steeled himself for the inevitable.

"No. That's not--" His dad broke off with a quiet curse.

Dean stiffened, biting his lip so hard he tasted blood. He waited, not sure if he was more afraid that his dad would continue or would just walk away.

Instead he moved his hand to Dean's face, gently turning his head, forcing Dean to meet his eyes. "I know I can count on you, Dean."

There was such conviction in the statement and Dean needed so badly to believe it that it almost broke him. Their eyes met for a second, then his dad enveloped him in a bone-crushing hug.

"I **know** that."

The words were whispered right into Dean's heart. He returned the hug with his good arm, barely daring to breathe. His dad released him and walked to the doorway, standing there a moment, looking down the hall. Dean was grateful for the minute's respite. He needed to pull himself together before he did something really stupid, like cry in front of his dad.

His dad cleared his throat a few times, then left the door to go sit back in the corner chair. "I was thinking about what we're going to do next. If we move on before this is settled, those sons o' bitches could skate. I'm not going to let that happen. Besides, Sammy seems to like it here. We could stay; maybe finish out the school year?"

Dean looked down at the sleeping form of his brother, then back up at his dad. "I think Sammy would love that. He's been talking about wanting to go on the trip to the water park his class always takes on the last day of school."

"What about you?"

Dean shrugged at the pointless question. "School's school. It doesn't matter where I go." He let his head fall against the pillow, giving into the exhaustion that ate at him.

"It's not that, Dean. This is a small town. Everyone's going to know what happened here. You'll probably have to testify at trial. Get on the stand in front of all those people." His dad's voice drifted, quiet and comforting, across the dark room. "It could be a little… scary."

"Don't worry, Dad," Dean said. With Sam sleeping beside him and his dad sitting in the corner, there wasn't a thing in the world he couldn't do. Testifying would be easy. "I can do it." As long as they were together, there was nothing to be scared of.


End file.
